Ghoul
by Gimmickry
Summary: In the end, the difference between them is that of a dog and a wolf. /Ancient Egypt AU one-shot/


Ghoul

Summary: In the end, the difference between them is that of a dog and a wolf. /Ancient Egypt AU one-shot/

Rating: T

Genre: Drama/Horror

Shippings/Pairings: none

Warnings: historical inaccuracies, self-starvation, mild gore, cannibalism

Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! is the intellectual property of Takahashi Kazuki.

A/N: Here's a short one-shot for Halloween – please enjoy!

* * *

Atem shouldn't be here.

The cave's entrance opens up the cliffside like a gaping maw; the mouth is rough at the edges, having been sanded and chipped away by the harsh and unforgiving desert winds and time. The dripstones, hanging unevenly from the moist palate-roof of the dwelling, resemble a row of canines.

The ground around him is littered with bones for miles: pieces of buried ivory peek from beneath the ever-shifting sands like the whites of the eyes of a corpse. All of them are picked clean, not a strip of flesh left for the vultures or the jackals that are passing by; they are all circling the cave for naught but a few lone loose teeth with nothing to gnaw on.

Atem shudders.

He shouldn't be here; he should have come with an army, at least: accompanied by sharp spears and fearless men who wouldn't be tempted by a challenge – unlike him.

Yet, here he stands: surrounded by plucked fingers and disjointed ribs, which sprout from the depths of the desert like the most bountiful garden imaginable on this side of the earth.

The pharaoh tightens his grip on the _senet_ board that he has tucked under his arm: _this will be the last time_ , he promises himself.

He always does.

* * *

The creature is waiting for him; it's stirring another pot of stew over an open fire. The thick, gravy-like soup bubbles lazily as it is slowly mixed to and fro, the wooden ladle acting like an oar in the middle of a storm.

(The pharaoh notices that he has got used to the smell; the thought worries him a little.)

The resemblance between the two is uncanny, hair and all; it's startling enough to cause Atem's heart to still skip a beat each time the creature as much as turns his way. It seems so disturbingly… _human_ , that thing: with such deceivingly kind eyes and a smile like every other –

– if it weren't for the teeth.

 _You are here strictly for the challenge_ , the pharaoh reminds himself as another chill runs down his spine (whose vertebrae are just slightly jutting out under the dark and sweaty skin; encircled by muscles and flesh that would no doubt taste delicious to those who seek more than just dates to eat.) For some unknown reason, which Atem doesn't wish to unearth, the creature has proven to be extraordinarily talented when it comes to games: none of their matches have ever ended in an easy victory for either of them.

It's a dangerous and straight-out moronic habit for him to come here like this, the pharaoh admits to himself; they aren't even playing with anything at stake. Really, there is no reason for Atem to be here in the first place – aside from his morbid curiosity and thirst for adrenaline that will surely one day drive him to an early grave.

It's a gamble, what he is doing: a gamble and an addiction.

"Oh – hello again!"

As always, the creature greets him with a smile: its sharp teeth gleam in the dimly lit cave like shards of polished metal –

– yet Atem doesn't feel threatened at all.

The creature begins to make small talk as soon as the pharaoh has seated himself, and the previously still and quiet desert dwelling is soon filled with chipper one-sided chatter and questions that the other never bothers to answer.

"How's the life at the palace?"

Atem pulls out the package cloaked in linen from under his arm, and places it down onto a table: it has legs that distinctly resemble _legs –_

"Are you going to have a good harvest this year?"

– and he begins to unwrap the cloth, revealing the brand new senet set –

"How are – oh, that's _so COOL_!"

Suddenly, the creature is right next to him (near cheek to cheek) its eyes glued to the artefact:

"Oh _wow_ …"

It's a masterpiece of crafting: intricate both in shape as well as in detail, lovingly carved out of foreign dark wood, which has had to travel along the river Nile for weeks on end to reach the Kingdom. The illustrations – the hieroglyphs and the added imagery, inspired by the old tales known by all; the Anubis holding the scales seems to almost _move_ – have been painted by a steady, experienced hand, and with a brush worth one's monthly salary. The pharaoh, too, has had to pay a costly sum of precious stones and spices in order to obtain this treasure of a game set.

Nestled in a small drawer compartment beneath the board, the tokens shine with their bone skin: they glow like tiny lanterns in the low light as Atem plucks them out of their home one by one, and with nimble fingers, sets each of the pieces onto their rightful throne.

"They're so _pretty,_ " the creature sighs, running the very tip of its forefinger across one of the tokens; the sharp nail clinks softly against the ivory surface.

"Where did you –"

"I'm here to play. You start."

His tone is iron, and the creature complies without a word – though something that greatly resembles a frown pulls at its lips, if only for a second.

Their game begins.

* * *

There is a wooden bowl standing on the table. Coarsely crafted, its surface is chipped and rough; if someone were to take a sip over that oaken edge, even just for half a mouthful, they would surely have their gums and tongue pricked by splinters (and a bleeding mouth in this cave would spell death.)

The bowl is filled to the brim with piping hot soup: marshy and thick, chunks of fatty meat float and sink after another in the maroon liquid that is somewhat between honey and tar in consistency. It's letting out steam in lazy, cloudy swirls, puffing mist into the chilled cave air like a tiny hot spring. The white veil is slowly spreading out, being folded open by the draft; it's enveloping the tokens and their war zone, hovering over their hands – adding a new layer of reality to this game of passing.

The bowl has been set aside for him; this, Atem knows very well. The creature wishes to be a good host (as it has expressed aloud time and time again) and it never fails to prepare its visitor a meal – regardless of whether or not the guest actually has the appetite to stomach such food.

The pharaoh leaves the offering untouched, as always: not even a single glance is spared its way. The creature looks disappointed by this (its face even twists into a rather childish pout, Atem notes.) It almost acts like the silent rejection – the outright cold shoulder – has offended it, somehow.

It is of no matter: they would play this game out, and after that, Atem would be gone for good – he would never set foot in this cave ever again –

"…I don't understand."

The creature speaks, its voice soft in what sounds like confusion.

(Atem grits his teeth.)

"…some jackals are part of your families, yes? They live with you, herd your cattle for you; and yet, some you hunt for food – or even just for fun! Is that what this is about? Is that why you refuse to –"

"Do you eat your own kind?!" the pharaoh grinds out, slender fingers gripping an unfortunate game piece; he doesn't have time for this –

"Don't you?"

The creature lifts his head, revealing its deceivingly human-like features –

"You might as well; I know how you treat each other."

Its eyes look sad.

"You see some of your own flesh and blood as lowlife, while praising others; and those who weigh less than dirt in your eyes get…" at this point, the creature shivers –

"…get thrown…to _vultures_!"

It looks _disgusted_.

"Have you no shame?"

 _Wasting your own kin like that_ _–!_

Suddenly, the cold and pale, clawed fingers are grasping the pharaoh's dark hands; the creature is looking him in the eye, leaning so close over the game board that Atem can smell the stench of decaying flesh in its breath –

"What's the difference? I…I want to know!"

It sounds desperate; and although the creature has no tears of its own to shed, it looks like it's crying.

"Please, tell me!"

– _or do you even know it yourself?_

* * *

Atem hasn't eaten for days.

The council is growing distressed: he can see them eyeing him with concern, their worried expressions hid by their bowed heads. Siamun has gone back to his old habit of wringing his wrinkled hands (the bones worn frail by age creak like rotting branches in an autumn breeze) and Isis, formerly well-known for her deep and commanding tone of voice, has become shrill in her articulation.

Mahad is too busy comforting his apprentice – who's prone to bursting into tears on near every banquet nowadays – to show that he, too, is pained by his friend's sudden loss of appetite: but it's clear that the wielder of the Millennium Ring is deeply troubled by this change of events as well.

Atem finds himself not caring; the twisting feeling in the pit of his gut – as his empty stomach is desperately trying to feed on itself to sate its own hunger – is nothing compared to the belly-turning nausea that infects him each time food is being laid before him.

( _It's_ _like eating putrid fish_ , the pharaoh thinks to himself.)

The dishes presented to him are nothing short of a feast, as always: there is meat quartered by the best butchers in the capital, and prepared by the most talented of chefs. On silver plates, there lie freshly-picked dates with the side of quail eggs – and nestled in cups and goblets, there simmers the finest of beer: frothy waves spill over the golden rims as the chalices ooze the amber-like liquid like fountains built for the gods.

The mere sight of succulent beef (still dribbling with juices and cooked blood) seated steaming on his plate, makes the pharaoh's stomach turn; he cannot take a bite of any liver, nor can he chew down even the tiniest piece of a seasoned poultry breast. The smell itself has grown repulsive to him – it's as appetizing as that of a carcass –

That's why he has come here again: despite the promise that he never keeps.

The creature, too, is now looking at him with worry; it can no doubt see his gaunt face and protruding bones. It's once again stirring up another stew, pushing and pulling the wooden ladle back and forth, while every now and then stoking the fire.

The pharaoh seats himself, for once not feeling the rush of adrenaline hit; and though his legs are shaking, they are merely struggling to carry his diminishing weight and to keep him on his feet.

"You're not doing so well, are you?" the creature murmurs quietly.

Atem barks out a laugh, much to his own surprise. He wipes the corner of his mouth.

"As you may see," he answers, his voice hoarse. He hasn't been able to stomach a proper drink for a few hours, and by now, his palate is close to resembling a whetstone in texture.

 _It must be a curse_ , the pharaoh thinks to himself dazedly, his mind in a haze. The creature has to have done something to him: perhaps sent an evil spirit to plague him so that he can no longer feast like before. Had he truly enraged the creature so? And by doing what – refusing to eat the food it had offered to him?

But it looks so… _concerned_ , that thing: with its lips thinned to a straight, serious line, and its pale brow crinkled in what seems like obvious worry –

"…here."

It's a dismembered shin, with the ankle and the foot still attached. It's cooked golden-brown on the surface, while the soft and squishy, rosy insides peek out from the shallow cuts, dripping partially clotted, syrupy blood. The toenails, too, have been removed with the utmost care, plucked off one by one; and the meat is exquisitely tender, almost falling clean off the bone.

The creature looks at him, its eyes kind –

 _You don't know, do you?_

Atem breaks off a bite –

It tastes like veal.


End file.
